Baby, It's Cold Outside (16 page)

He touched a finger to her lips and felt them tremble. “Do you
want
to forget it?”

She leaned back, away from him, refusing to look him in the eye. She couldn’t think clearly when she stared into that stormy blue. “What I want and what’s right and smart aren’t always the same thing,” she said.

“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. I think
we don’t often go wrong when we follow our instincts. And my instincts tell me we should explore this attraction between us.”

She laughed, hoping to sound scornful. But the sound came out high and pinched. “Now that’s a line I haven’t heard before,” she said. “I give you points for originality.”

“It’s not a line. Look at me, Stacy.”

Reluctantly, she met his gaze.

“Not every man is out to take advantage of you,” he said. “All I want is for you to stop running from me and pushing me away. I won’t take anything you don’t want to give.”

What would he say if she told him he’d already taken a little piece of her heart? If she’d believed theirs would be nothing more than an amusing, shallow fling between two people who were unlikely to see each other again after this week, she wouldn’t have hesitated to throw her arms around him right now, kiss him soundly and drag him off to her room at the hotel.

But her feelings for Kristján were anything but shallow. Being with him stirred her deep inside in a way that no other man had—a way that made her feel too uncertain and out of control. So why couldn’t she be honest and tell him that? “I really do like you,” she said. “And I’m sure we’d have a wonderful time together. But I’m not good at casual relationships. And I don’t like being hurt, even if the damage is unintentional.”

Something flared in his eyes, some passion or depth of feeling she was unable to read before he smothered it. “I understand,” he said. “I, too, am afraid that with you I might not guard my feelings as carefully as I should. But I can’t help but regret what might have been.”

They might have been a wonderful couple for the few weeks or months romance and passion outweighed more practical concerns. But real life and practicality always intruded eventually and, just as her parents had discovered they could not live on love alone, she and Kristján would learn the same thing.

She blinked. What was she doing, thinking about
love
with Kristján? She hardly knew him. Oh shaking legs, she stood. Time to put some physical distance between the two of them, before the lateness of the hour and the wine she’d drunk and the pull of desire got the better of her. “Good night,” she said. “I’m glad we cleared the air between us. We can be friends now.”

“Friends.” His smile was forced, and he leaned toward her. At first she feared a repeat of the scene in the Gullfoss parking lot, but instead of her mouth, his lips brushed her cheek with a feather-touch that nevertheless sent warmth pooling between her legs.

“Good night,” she said again, and turned and fled the room, before lust and longing trampled what remained of her better judgment.

T
HE
T
OURIST
B
OARD
had convinced Stacy that she owed it to herself and her crew to spend two full days at Iceland’s famous Blue Lagoon. They would shoot the final series of ads at the spa and hot springs and enjoy some well-deserved rest and relaxation before Stacy returned to the States.

The thought of leaving Iceland so soon—of leaving Kristján—set up a dull pain in Stacy’s gut. The pain further annoyed her because she did not see herself as the type of woman who would moon over a man.

But for some reason this man—this handsome, witty, surprising, impossible athlete—got to her. With a look or a touch or a word he laid bare her every insecurity, probed every secret and made her question so much of what she thought she knew about herself.

When she was with him she felt too vulnerable and uncertain—yet also more feminine and desirable and cherished—than she had in all her adult life. Kristján wanted to take care of her—and the fact that she wanted to let him do so frightened her enough to convince her she should get on the next plane back to Colorado.

But first she had to finish the shoot. And hope that the
healing waters of the Blue Lagoon would help clear her confused thoughts and snap her out of the lust-induced haze that was the only explanation she could come up with for her strange behavior around Kristján.

A van transported the crew to the Blue Lagoon the next morning, though their photography session would not begin until late afternoon, when Stefan hoped to take advantage of the sunset for some dramatic photos. Stacy checked into the hotel, then changed into a bikini, grabbed a towel and headed for the pools.

Like almost everything else in Iceland, the Blue Lagoon seemed transported from another planet or a prehistoric landscape. Milky-blue water lapped at obsidian lava formations, steam rising gently from the water’s surface or shooting from vents in the rock. Bathers floated in the salty water, or smeared themselves with the white mineral-rich mud that could be scooped from the bottom of the pools, or from buckets that attendants filled daily and placed around the pool.

As Stacy stood on the boardwalk taking in this surreal scene, she heard someone shout her name, and turned to see Jóna waving from the water. The designer wore a frilly pink swim cap and held her laughing, naked little boy as he dangled his feet in the water.

Stacy waded to them. “Nice cap,” she said, eyeing the headgear, which up close resembled something out of
Swan Lake
—the psychedelic version.

Jóna laughed. “The minerals in the water are very hard on the hair,” she explained. “Some women use conditioner to protect their hair, but I prefer to keep mine covered.”

“The baby is enjoying himself.” Stacy smiled at the little boy, who grinned back at her, and she felt the familiar tug at her heart that happened more and more these days around small children.

“He loves the warm water.” Jóna settled the boy into an infant’s swim ring. “There. He can float safely and you and I can visit.” She scooped a handful of mud from a pail and began slathering it on her arms. “Would you like some? It’s very good for your skin.”

When in Rome…“Sure.” Stacy accepted a handful of mud and copied Jóna, covering her arms, shoulders and face with the warm, gritty substance. It felt surprisingly soothing, though she was sure she looked as ridiculous as she felt.

“How is the shooting going?” Jóna asked.

“It’s going well,” Stacy said. “I think the ads will be beautiful and hopefully effective.”

“Kristján seems to be enjoying himself more than he thought he would.”

Stacy’s heart beat faster at the mention of Kristján, and she looked around them, as if expecting him to rise from the water like Poseidon.

“He’s in the sauna, I think,” Jóna said, answering the question Stacy hadn’t asked. “Hiding out from that photographer.”

“Lang Kerr? Is he here?” Stacy searched the area, half expecting to see a short man in a down coat, camera in hand.

“Kristján thought he saw him earlier, so he persuaded Arni to go to the sauna with him.”

“Arni? Your other brother is here?”

“Yes. He loves the Blue Lagoon, so we decided to make a family reunion of this trip.”

“Where does Arni live?”

“In Husavik, with our parents.”

Arni was even older than Kristján and he still lived at home? But maybe he took care of his parents. “What kind of work does Arni do?”

“Computer drafting. He’s very good at it, though I’ll admit I don’t understand it. He’s always trying to convince me to draw my sweater designs on the computer, but I prefer pen and paper.” She gave her son’s floaty a little shove and he drifted to Stacy, who clasped his little hands in hers and grinned.

“You should consider extending your visit,” Jóna said. “You could come to Husavik and meet my parents. The scenery on the coast is magnificent—we’re known for the whales that gather there. You can even take a tour out to see them. And we have interesting museums, including the World Phallology Exhibit.”

Stacy looked up from her game of peekaboo with the baby. “The what?”

Jóna laughed. “The world’s largest collection of penises. There’s one from a whale that’s four and a half feet long.”

“That sounds like it would give me nightmares. I think I’ll pass.”

“I’m only trying to point out all the reasons Husavik should not be missed.”

“Maybe some other time,” Stacy said. “I should be going home.”

“Don’t you have vacation you could use?” Jóna asked.

Stacy did have several weeks of accumulated vacation time. She seldom bothered to use it all. “Why are you so interested in having me stay?” she asked.

“I like you and I want to show off my country.” She hesitated, then added, “And Kristján likes you.”

“He said that?” Stacy was grateful for the mud mask that hid much of her expression.

“He didn’t have to. I hear it in his voice when he talks about you. He hasn’t been this happy since winning the Olympics.”

“I can’t take credit for that,” she protested.

“I think you can. Before he met you, whenever we talked on the phone Kristján was so focused on himself—how hard it was to know what to do with his life, how tired he was of traveling, how he had nothing to look forward to. You’ve got him thinking outside of himself, taking an interest in other people, talking about the future as something positive, something he looks forward to.”

“You’re the one responsible for that. You persuaded him to take this job. Maybe all he needed was work and being around new people.”

“That might be part of it, but I think most of it is due to you. You’ve sparked something in him I don’t think he’d even try to explain, but I see it.”

Stacy looked away. She couldn’t very well deny that Kristján had sparked something in her as well.

“Don’t tell him I said anything. He’d be furious with me for meddling,” Jóna said. “And you’re both certainly old enough to manage your affairs without my input. I just wanted you to know that you are welcome to stay if you like and…and I think my brother could make you happy, though I might be a little bit prejudiced.”

Stacy nodded, too moved to speak. The picture Jóna had painted of a depressed, confused Kristján was such
a contrast to the strong, confident man she knew. Had Jóna exaggerated to garner sympathy for her brother? Or had Stacy really made such a difference in his life?

She knew danger lay in expecting another person to fill the holes in one’s life. But was it possible that the right partner—the person, even, that you were
meant
to be with—could help you find ways to fill those holes yourself?

She thought of the holes in her own life—the spaces that should have been filled with family and children and the love of a good man. Was Kristján the one who would help her fill those holes?

B
Y THE TIME
K
RISTJÁN
reached the sauna, Arni was already waiting for him. Kristján was sure his brother had planned this. Though the accident that had left him paralyzed from the waist down had happened almost twenty years ago, Arni avoided calling attention to his disability, especially around Kristján.

“From Olympic medalist to sweater model running from the papparazzi,” Arni said when the brothers had exchanged greetings. He shook his head. “How the mighty have fallen.”

“I’m doing this as a favor for Jóna,” Kristján said, refusing to rise to Arni’s bait.

“Sure. And I suppose it has its perks.” He stretched his arms over his head, the powerful muscles of his shoulders and chest knotting, in sharp contrast to his withered lower body. “So which one of the models are you sleeping with?” he asked.

“None of them. Why would you think that?”

“If it was me, I’d be taking advantage of the situation.” He grinned. “According to the papers, you’re a real playboy these days.”

“You should know better than to believe everything you read in the papers.”

“Ah, but they always have pictures—photographs of you and the most attractive starlets and socialites. When you’re tired of them, you should send a few of those beauties my way.”

Kristján remained silent, remembering a time when their roles had been reversed—when Arni had been the brother all the women flocked to and Kristján the silent onlooker.

Arni must have been thinking similar thoughts. “Do you remember the time you had a crush on that girl on the ski team, the one who wore the long braids?” he asked. “What was her name?”

“Greta.” She’d been sixteen, he seventeen, and so much in love he could scarcely sleep or eat.

“She kept coming over to the house and you thought it was because she was crazy about you, when all along it was me she wanted.” Arni laughed. “I was in a wheelchair and she still preferred me to you.”

Kristján nodded; the old hurt long since healed, replaced by a different kind of pain when he thought of his brother. Before Arni’s accident, the two had been close; Kristján longed to find a way past Arni’s bitterness, to rekindle the friendship that had meant so much to him. He leaned forward and ladled water onto the stones in the center of the sauna, and steam rose between them, obscuring their vision. For a moment the only sound was the hissing of steam, and the creak of the wood benches
as they shifted their bodies. Then Arni’s voice penetrated the fog. “Don’t tell me you’re making it with the American—that little director or whatever she is.”

Kristján stiffened, but he kept his voice even. “Stacy is the marketing director for the company that plans to sell the sweaters.”

“You always did like the dark ones. So, are you sleeping with her?”

“No.” Though not for want of trying.

“What is wrong with you? All these women ready to give it up for you and you aren’t taking advantage.”

He couldn’t tell his brother that he was at the point in his life where he wanted more than sex from a woman. For too long almost everything in his life had been transient and temporary, from his address to his relationships. He was ready to stop, to put down roots. He no longer wanted only to go to bed with someone; he wanted to love them and stay with them. Maybe forever.

“How is Clara?” he asked. Clara was the woman who had stuck by Arni the longest, calming his mood swings and teasing him out of his ill temper.

“Clara is fine.” All trace of sarcasm and bitterness had vanished from Arni’s voice. “She wants to get married.”

“You should marry her. She loves you.”

“And you know all about that, right, Mr. Playboy?”

“I would marry if I found the right woman. Now that I’m retired from racing, I hope that I will.”

“You won’t retire. After all these years, racing’s in your blood. I’ll bet you a thousand kronur that when the season starts you’ll be waxing your skis and heading back out there.”

“No bets,” Kristján said. “I don’t intend to race again.”

“One medal and you’re done? I don’t believe you. Don’t you know the whole country expects you to go back in four years and do it again? You can’t let them down. You can’t let
me
down.”

The words were a knife, sawing at an old, familiar wound. “In four years I’ll be thirty-eight,” he said. “Too old to compete with the teenagers and twenty-year-olds.”

“That’s just an excuse. People said you were too old this time, too, and you proved them wrong.”

“I’m tired of that life. I’m ready for something different.”

“I’m tired,” Arni mimicked in a high-pitched whine. The wood creaked as he dragged himself over on the bench, until he was next to Kristján. “If you don’t care about your countrymen, then think about me. You should go out there and win a medal for me, since I can’t win one for myself.”

The words sent a mixture of nausea, rage and despair swirling through Kristján. He gripped the edge of the wooden bench until his knuckles ached. “I won my medal for you,” he said. “I told you that when I gave it to you.” The heavy gold medal in its fancy presentation case was somewhere in the house Arni shared with their parents—if Arni hadn’t hurled it into the sea during one of his rages.

“I’m surprised you didn’t tell the press that. ‘I won this medal for my crippled brother.’ They would have eaten that up. Women would have been throwing themselves at you even worse than they do now. They’d have been begging to sleep with you.”

“Shut up.” Kristján didn’t raise his voice, but the coldness in the two words cut through the heavy atmosphere inside the sauna.

“Who are you to tell me to shut up? I taught you everything you know about skiing and racing. I showed you everything that would have made me great, if I’d only had the chance.”

Kristján stood, so weary that even that simple movement took great effort. “I’m done here,” he said. “Do you need help getting back into your chair?”

“No, I don’t need your help!” Arni snapped.

Kristján exited the sauna, but returned seconds later, pushing the lightweight racing chair—a gift he’d sent last year—over to the edge of the bench.

Arni swore, but hoisted himself into the chair, jerking out of Kristján’s reach. “Leave me alone,” he ordered, and rolled away.

Kristján stared after his brother’s hunched figure, watching the muscles of his shoulders and arms flex and strain as he powered the wheelchair over the rough walkway.